


The Blizzard of 1908

by Moonzari



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pregnancy, Raoul is referenced in this fic for like 3 seconds but still comes with a big red flag warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 10:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30054183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonzari/pseuds/Moonzari
Summary: Post LND; Christine survives. A year after the events of LND, Erik and Christine are married and expecting their second child. Christine’s been thinking a lot about the past lately and thinks it’s a good a time as any for her and her husband to explore it.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Gustave Daaé & Christine Daaé, Gustave Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé (past)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	The Blizzard of 1908

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request for a Discord friend. They asked for Erik to play Christine organ music to get her to sleep when they are snowed in so I ran with it. Hope y’all enjoy.

The snow has been falling since the night before last. A storm like this had not happened back in France in Christine’s recent memory, but Erik tells her that this is typical New York winter weather.

Gustave is desperate to go out and play in it, badgering his parents to the point of annoyance, and finally, Erik relents during a lull in the storm. He wants to give his son the world— the childhood he never had. The _life_ he had not known.

And then there were ten years to make up for. Ten years of Erik’s foolishness and blindness. There was nothing he could ever do or give to Christine or their son to make up for running like a coward that night. All he could do now was make up for lost time with what little he could give Gustave: to make him happy, if only for a few fleeting moments. Even if that meant going out in between bouts of this blizzard and let the boy experience his first taste of snow activities.

In the end, they had both come back cold but happy, Gustave telling his mother everything they had done in the snow while she fixes their tea.

“Papa and I had a snowball fight! I won!” the young boy chirps from his seat at the table, which earns Erik a glare from Christine.

“The snow’s light. They fell apart on impact.”

That did little to drop the look, but she kisses Gustave’s slightly damp hair. “Of course you won, darling. Papa’s getting old and slow and you are a clever little boy.”

Now it is Erik’s turn to throw Christine a look, chuckling under his breath as his wife turns back to the stove. “Alright, Gustave,” he starts as Christine begins bringing the tea setting to the table. “The snow does not negate our lesson today. After tea, we will go up and work some more on scales.”

Gustave groans. The blizzard gave him a day or two off of schoolwork, but he is coming to find that being the progeny of a musical genius came with some standards. “Okay, Papa,” he relents, thanking his mother with a bright grin as she put a prepared cup of tea in front of him the way she knew he liked it and a scone baked yesterday.

When she sets about preparing her husband’s tea, Erik protests. “Christine, please get off of your feet. You’ve been standing long enough.”

Christine couldn’t help but smile a little at that. He made it so hard to stay angry at him. “You’re infuriating,” she says, the smile spreading across her face one she was unable to hide.

“And you’re pregnant,” he retorts, a large hand reaching out to cover her own and still her movements. “So please. Rest. I’m capable.”

While Christine appreciates Erik’s doting nature: he is turning out to be an excellent father and husband— he still tends to put her on a pedestal. Like she needs to be sheltered and protected and waited upon. She had had enough of that as the Vicomtesse.

“I’m not fragile, Erik. I can make you a cup of tea,” she says firmly, challenging her husband with a sort of playful smirk as she keeps on doing what she is doing.

Erik grits his teeth, before rolling his eyes and nodding.

“You don’t have to throw a fit,” Christine chides, kissing him on the unmasked side of his forehead as she puts his tea in front of him.

“Don’t patronize me,” Erik growls, and she pats him on the cheek as she gives him a scone.

* * *

Later after dinner, Gustave is playing on the floor while Christine knits, and Erik sits at his desk nearby to go over some blueprints for a new attraction at Phantasma.

It’s a scene Christine is privy to, one where she and Gustave would take to the parlor in the evenings and Raoul would drink. It always ended the same— Christine imploring her husband not to drink, him snapping at her. Their son calling for Raoul to play with him; Raoul, semi-drunk, flying off the handle. And Christine always having to intervene—

“Papa, please come play with me?”

The words still send that fight-or-flight response through Christine; her heart races, and she has to remind herself where she is and that Raoul is no longer here.

Erik smiles at Gustave. “Let me finish what I am doing and I will be right there.”

Christine lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Erik has been nothing but a wonderful husband and father— but years of Raoul’s verbal callous had run deep.

She watches as her husband gets down on the floor to play with their son: helps him build something elaborate with the set of blocks Erik had gotten Gustave for Christmas the year before. There was never any doubt in Christine’s mind that Gustave was Erik’s child. The boy enjoyed architecture almost as much as his father, and it made her heart swell when she saw them sharing that passion.

When the grandfather clock in the hall strikes nine, Erik reaches out and ruffles Gustave’s hair. “Alright young man. It’s bedtime,” he says, and he helps him pick up his blocks. Christine watches in silence, stroking her abdomen as the baby flutters within her for the first time.

She realizes after she kisses Gustave goodnight and Erik takes him upstairs, that she and her husband have never really spoken of the past. And tonight, it weighs heavily on her mind.

She wants Erik to know. He deserves to know.

“I’m fairly certain Raoul always knew,” Christine begins when Erik comes back downstairs from putting their son to bed. “He was a good father… in the beginning. Before the gambling began and we weren’t trying to keep afloat.” She bites her lip then, not sure where she is going with this. Erik has taken a seat beside her on the couch, his eyes so intent upon her she feels like she could almost cry. “The moment Gustave could climb up onto the piano bench, he was figuring out how to play melodies. I just… the first time he played a complete song I _cried_. I saw so much of you in him and I think Raoul did, too. Whether he wanted to admit it or not.

“The more I think about it, the more I see he took a lot of it out on Gustave and it wasn’t his fault. I spent a lot of time playing mediator, coddling him. Maybe to reassure myself he hadn’t been a mistake. That he was all I had left of the man I loved and that it was no one’s fault. That the minute I felt ill on the morning of my wedding, I knew I had conceived your child, and I loved that little spark of life with every fiber of my being. Because I loved you. I tried to hate you but I couldn’t, Erik. God, how could I?”

At this point, Christine is fidgeting with her hands, playing with the ring on her finger. “I didn’t know how you would have reacted to knowing. I felt selfish every time I looked at him and I saw you. It wasn’t fair to him. But…” she feels tears in her eyes. “I missed you _so much._ ”

Erik sighs, the guilt rising in his throat and choking him; silencing his response. All he can do is reach over and take a hand in his. “I spent every day convincing myself that leaving you that night was the right thing to do. There were so many days I wanted to come back and tell you it was all a lie.” He pauses then like he’s unsure how to continue. “When Gustave’s birth was announced in the paper, I was determined to let you be. Until the news of the Vicomte’s massive gambling problem and debt reached American shores. I couldn’t resist. I had to play my hand.

“I’m happy things ended up the way they did. I have you and two beautiful children. I couldn’t ask for more.” He presses the bridge of his nose against her temple, the mask he doesn’t need to be wearing pressing slightly into her flesh. “I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you, I love you. And I will never tire of saying it.”

Christine isn’t sure if it’s hormones or just pure unbridled emotion— perhaps both, but she tears up at Erik’s words. She turns to gingerly cup his face in her hands, kissing him soundly. “And I love you, you big, idiotic man,” she smiles through the tears streaming down her cheeks.

They stay there a moment, foreheads touching as they bask in the presence of each other. Christine’s fingers trace under the edge of Erik’s mask and he sighs through his nostrils. They’ve been back together for over a year at this point and he still has to brace himself every time she unmasks him. She idly wonders if it will ever ease for him. At least he doesn’t recoil anymore. _Baby steps,_ she thinks.

Gently, the mask comes off and Christine puts it on the table beside them. “There’s my handsome husband,” she purrs, pulling him back into a slow, deep kiss. Erik melts into her, a hand on her cheek grounds him and lets him know this is not a dream. There were many dreams during those ten years without her that Christine was there in his arms, against him, kissing him, embedded into every one of his senses. But he always woke up to nothing. He opens his eyes after they part and she is still there, her eyes shining at him like he’s the only man in the world.

He doesn’t feel worthy of this woman. He never will.

“There is more to speak of, but not today,” she breathes, pulling away from him slightly. “I felt the baby move.”

Erik’s eyes widen. “When?!”

She giggles a little, reaching up again to stroke his defined jawline. “A few moments ago.”

He just pulls her into his arms and holds her then, like he can’t believe his fortune. And he truly cannot. He thanks whatever high power brought her back to him, kept her alive. Erik reminds himself each day how fortunate he is, indeed.

“Erik?” comes her gentle voice, and he speaks without pulling away. “Yes, my dove?”

“Would you play for me tonight? Play for… us?”

He lets out a shuddering breath, but nods. “I could never deny you a request, my nightingale,” he murmurs as he kisses her forehead, before making a move to pick her up and take her upstairs to the piano.

“No, no,” Christine stops him, a slight hand on his chest. “The organ. Please?”

Erik raises an eyebrow at the request, taking her up into his arms “As my Diva commands,” he purrs, taking her down to the basement.

Down here he had made a cozy place: a fireplace and his organ, along with the walls lined with books of all subjects. Christine didn’t come down here much but always felt privileged to be here. This was Erik’s domain, and she felt like she was being welcomed into it each and every time.

He lays his wife on a chaise lounge he put here specifically for her and kisses her gently. “What would you like to hear, darling?”

Christine reaches up and strokes his deformed cheek, staring up into his mismatched eyes. “Play us something soft. Something of yours,” she says.

Erik turns to light a fire in the fireplace and then to his pile of scores laying on the desk.

“I’ve been working on this one,” he says, spreading the music out and beginning to play.

The notes from the organ fill her with memories, ones from so long ago, and she sighs as they wash over her. Good ones, bad ones. Bad ones that had been murky at best. She feels the child inside her flutter again and she smiles, closes her eyes.

The organ music, though soft, vibrates through her very bones and she feels at peace, like everything in the past ten years has been okay. Every hardship she has endured has brought her to this moment: here— warm, safe, amid a blizzard. With the man that she loved and their children. Warm. Safe.

Warm.

The fire and the organ music cradle her to sleep, Erik’s music— his sheer mastery to detail, once again, making her feel complete.


End file.
